


love is a fire (and I wanna burn)

by galerian_ash



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/pseuds/galerian_ash
Summary: Connor reaches his breaking point.





	love is a fire (and I wanna burn)

**Author's Note:**

> Because it's a really hot summer over here, and also because I've gotten ridiculously obsessed with the idea of Hank in a ponytail.
> 
> Title borrowed from a line in "Season In Hell" by John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band.

"Fucking hell, Connor. I'm gonna get heatstroke just _looking_ at you."

Connor fought down a grin and continued skimming through the case file in his hands.

"You're doing it on purpose, aren't you?"

"Doing what?" Connor asked, still carefully avoiding eye contact.

Hank snorted. "That pure and innocent act doesn't work on me. I bought it the first time, when you pretended not to know where I was telling you to stick your instructions, but now? Forget it."

The grin broke free. "I'm really not doing anything, though."

"You're here on our day off, reading case files."

"You told me to come over. And I had to do something till you woke up."

"Not dressed in a goddamn suit, you don't! I've told you, _repeatedly_ , to dress according to the weather. And it's been hot as hell for the last few weeks."

"And I've told you, repeatedly, that I can adjust my body temperature," Connor replied. He put down the file and finally turned to look at Hank.

He was barefoot, only wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. A normal sight, but his hair... His hair was in a ponytail. A messy one, with a couple of loose strands framing his jaw.

And suddenly he felt like he _was_ overheating, self-regulatory temperature system or no.

It only got worse when Hank turned around and exposed his back. Connor could see his neck, skin a lighter shade than the rest of his sunburned face.

There was a scar there, a thin white line at a slight vertical angle.

He was unable to determine the exact age, but it was old — twenty years, maybe more.

It was a side of Hank he had never seen. Something secret, hidden from view, that most people never got to see.

He wasn't even aware of having gotten to his feet, but there he was, standing behind Hank. His hand reached out, two fingers extended to trail along that faded scar.

The second Connor touched Hank's skin he started and whirled around. "The hell are you doing? Are you trying to scare me to death now?"

"The scar," Connor said.

"What?"

"You — you have a scar. On the back of your neck."

Hank frowned, raising his hand to feel for himself. "I do?"

"You don't remember how you got it?"

"Hey, I don't like that tone. If you're trying to imply I'm getting forgetful you can just — oh. Wait, I remember now."

"Well?" Connor prompted. He felt oddly impatient, like he was on the verge of unraveling some vital mystery.

"It was back when I was a beat cop. I tried to break up a fight between two drunks, and one of them broke a bottle over my head. Cut me up some, had to get stitches."

A brief flash of anger only served to make him feel even hotter. If he'd been there, he would have...

"Connor? What's with you?"

"Nothing," he said automatically.

Hank made a face. "Sure, sure. Whatever." He turned back around — he was preparing food for Sumo, Connor dimly realized — giving Connor a clear view of his neck.

Hank _was_ hot, that was easy to see from the sweat beading on his skin. As Connor stared one of the drops started running down. Its path was disrupted by the scar, and it followed along the crooked line, slowly, slowly. It finally reached the end, and continued on its straight downward path to disappear beneath the shirt.

It was, quite literally, the last drop.

He moved forward, pressing the length of his body against Hank's, pushing him against the counter and trapping him in place.

Hank let out a surprised little sound, which quickly turned into a gasp as Connor pressed his lips against the scar.

He traced it with his tongue, relishing both the salty flavor and the texture of the uneven scar.

He had to spare a second to make sure his temperature wasn't really as high as it felt — he'd be liable to burst into flames at any second if it were. That was enough time for Hank to twist around in his hold.

His eyes were wide and endlessly blue, a striking contrast to the flush of red on his cheeks.

"What are you doing?!"

"Do you want me to stop?"

Connor could feel the rapid beat of Hank's heart against his body, and already knew the answer.

Hank averted his eyes and swallowed. "...No," he said, so quietly that it was nothing more than a whispered exhale.

That was all Connor needed to hear.

He bent down a bit and lifted Hank up, turning them both around and setting Hank down on the kitchen table.

Connor ran his fingers up Hank's legs, resting his palms over his knees for a second. Then he slowly pushed Hank's legs apart and stepped in for a kiss.

Hank moaned into the contact, the sound cutting through his head like a white-hot knife.

"Hank," he mumbled, "Hank, Hank." It was like a mantra inside of him, like a song stuck in an unending loop.

He gently bit Hank's bottom lip, before moving to lick the corner of his mouth and venturing inside when it opened up for him.

Hank was pliant beneath Connor's hands, eagerly rising up to meet every kiss, every touch, every whispered breath.

As if having done this a hundred times before, Connor found his hands naturally straying down, down to Hank's crotch. Hank responded by letting out a low hiss as he fell forward, burying his head against Connor's shoulder.

Connor touched him through the damp fabric of his shorts. He was close. That much was obvious from the way his body was twitching in sync with his hitched breaths, and from the amount of pre-come alone.

Connor started sliding his hand underneath the waistband of the shorts, and was rewarded by Hank turning his head and biting Connor's throat.

It caught him off guard, shorts ripping in his hands. 

At last he got to the heated length of Hank's cock. He touched it softly at first, focusing on mapping it out and exploring every vein and ridge, but that only caused Hank to groan desperately.

"Please," he said, almost whimpering, "Connor, please, I can't..."

Connor obeyed, powerless to resist. He wrapped his hand around Hank, and pumped twice — that was all it took.

Hank came with a moan, head snapping back and toes curling against Connor's legs.

It was one of the most beautiful things Connor had ever seen, and he took careful stock of every little detail.

Hank spent a few moments just panting, eyes closed. "Holy shit," he finally said. "I can't believe we didn't wake Sumo up."

"That would've been a bit awkward, yeah," Connor replied. Not that it would've stopped him, even for a second, but Hank didn't need to know that.

"And I can't believe the table didn't break."

"It had a 79% chance of making it."

"Well, that's comforting to know," Hank muttered, grimacing.

That was clearly sarcasm, but Connor still nodded.

"Shit, I need another shower. And a new pair of shorts," he added, raising one eyebrow and giving Connor a pointed look.

"Ah, yes, sorry about that."

"It's fine," Hank said, gingerly getting off the table. He was holding the ruined shorts together with one hand. "Maybe try not to literally tear my clothes off next time, huh?"

He said it with a teasing grin, but then something seemed to occur to him and the grin slid right off. "Not that I'm saying there'll even be a next time. Or expecting it. I mean, I get it."

Connor stared. "Get what?"

"You know — the heat finally got to you. Made you do crazy shit you normally wouldn't. Not that there's anything wrong with it," he hurried to add, raising the hand not currently holding up his shorts and giving a little wave. "You should be having sex, that's normal. So find some nice girl or guy, someone young and pretty, who treats you right. Understand what I mean, Connor?"

He didn't.

It sounded like Hank was pushing him away, and that didn't make sense. They had spent almost every moment together for the past seven months, both during work and their time off.

Markus had tried to get him to stick around, but once he'd brought the androids from CyberLife? He was out of there, because there was only one person he wanted to be with. That person had waited for him by Chicken Feed that chilly November dawn. And that same person now stood in front of him, telling him to find someone else.

That... hurt, and for a second Connor was close to faking a smile and pretending like nothing was wrong. But then he disconnected from his own pain and looked at Hank. _Really_ looked at him.

This wasn't about him not wanting Connor. It was the other way around.

Hank was standing there, genuinely believing that Connor didn't actually want him. That he'd been nothing more than an outlet; just the nearest available body when Connor's sexual drive had awakened.

It made sense. You couldn't spend as long time as Hank had wanting to die, trying to slowly kill yourself by drinking and playing Russian roulette, without your sense of self-worth taking a serious beating. Connor could've kicked himself. He should have seen it, should've handled the situation differently.

But Hank had gotten so much better. He rarely drank, didn't play that damn game anymore, and only looked at Cole's photo on really bad days. Those were the days he and Connor sat on the couch together until late in the night, some old movie or rerun of a basketball game playing on the TV that neither of them actually paid attention to, until Hank dozed off. Sometimes he slowly tilted over until he was leaning against Connor, head pillowed on his shoulder; once he'd slid all the way down, and had slept in Connor's lap until morning.

He remembered the way he'd looked at Hank's sleeping face that whole night, remembered the way he'd felt. He hadn't understood it at the time, not fully — and that was why the sight of a ponytail and a scar had pushed him over the edge.

If he'd been smarter, and just a little bit quicker on the uptake, he could've done this right. Could've told Hank how he felt before mauling him, for fuck's sake.

But instead he'd messed up, and now Hank was paying the price.

"Hank," he began, taking a step forward.

Hank took a step back.

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands. "Just listen though, please? You've got it all wrong."

"Come on," Hank cut in, "I told you not to sweat it. I understand, it's fine. It won't change anything between us."

"I want it to."

"Huh?" Hank's gaze moved towards the bathroom door, and Connor swore silently. Maybe he was overreacting, but it felt like he'd lose the chance forever if he let Hank go now. As if he'd come out all clean, having washed away every remnant of their lovemaking on both his body and his mind.

And okay, he definitely _was_ overreacting by preconstructing the different ways he could get between Hank and that door. But to hell with it, he wasn't going to make any more mistakes.

"This has been building up inside of me for a long, long time. The heat didn't get to me. It was just you."

Hank gave him a patient little smile, making it clear that he didn't believe what Connor was saying for a second. "This is all new for you, it's no wonder you're confused."

"Will you listen to me?! I was never confused — only obtuse. I've loved you and wanted you since last year, I just didn't _get it_. I didn't understand what it was I felt when you smiled at me or hugged me, or when I sat and watched you sleep."

The smile fell away. Hank looked — lost. The way he'd looked the night in the park, shoulders hunched and eyes distant, as he spoke about that elusive 'before'.

"You... You've just spent too much time around me, that's all. Once you're with others a bit more you'll see that I'm old and used up, with a dead-end career, and nothing to offer you."

"You know me better than that," Connor said, taking a step closer. This time Hank didn't move away, and bolstered by that Connor slowly continued forward. "It's you or no one. And I don't see you that way at all."

"You always had a dumb streak in you," Hank mumbled when he was close enough to touch.

"Maybe, but not about this."

He slowly reached out, tucking some of the loose strands of hair behind Hank's ear. The ponytail was even messier now.

"You're the best person I've ever known, and will ever know. You're not old or used up. I couldn't care less about your career; all I want is to continue being your partner. And you have so much to offer, even if you can't see it yourself. You gave me my humanity, Hank. It doesn't get much bigger than that."

"Don't you ever shut up?" Hank said. He looked embarrassed, and the smile on his face was both hesitant and brittle — but also hopeful.

"Make me," Connor challenged.

Two seconds later, pushed against the wall and getting thoroughly kissed, Connor found that Hank was more than willing to rise to the challenge.


End file.
